To Make Me Feel This Way
by InfamouslyInfatuated
Summary: Part One. Another ramble. House witnesses something he'd really rather not between Cuddy and is it? Wilson...or does he?
1. Part One

Title: ...To Make Me Feel This Way (Triquel to "What a Wicked Game to Play.." and "Work of the Devil")  
Author: Nikayla   
Genre: Romance  
Pairing: House/Cuddy  
Set During: Season 3  
Rating: PG-13  
Disclaimer: No, I don't own House or Cuddy; if I did...well if I told you I'd have to kill you. :P

Part One

He's kissing her. He's kissing her and his hand is sneaking up her dress. He's kissing her and the anger that is erupting in your stomach is something immeasurable. They'd gone to dinner and he'd brought her home. He told her how he felt about her, every meaningless detail. And she bought it. She let herself become vulnerable; too vulnerable. Not the way she is with you; vulnerability simply a clever excuse whenever the two of you run off somewhere and return slightly disheveled and with unexplainable scratches. No. She believed that look in his eyes and when he moves to touch her; to kiss her, she allowed him. Encouraged him even; parting her lips when he leaned in, reacting when his hand pressed into her hip and her into the door.

And you swear you can see every part of her humming when he touches her, glowing. And something isn't letting you stop it. Some unseen force is holding you back. Too far to do anything but close enough to have it all searing your memory.

When he says maybe they should take things inside all she can do is gaze up at him with her sparkling eyes and pull him through the doorway. He overpowers her and 'God', you say, 'she can't want this'. But she does. His hands are greedy on her skin; trying too hard to possess what you once, twice, a hundred times possessed. She gasps at the ferocity of his touch. But this is your M.O. Yours and yours alone. Wandering hands and lips and teeth, touching every inch of her; memorizing even the littlest of her reactions. How can he know what buttons to push? Why doesn't she pull away?

Her hands were meant to touch you, her lips meant to kiss you. But instead she touches him, kisses him. He's undressing her, his hands running across her bare skin, just taunting you. Every intake of breath grows more haggard. He keeps touching her; he won't stop and she's wanting every second of it.

He pulls her out of her dress and his eyes ravage her body; narrowly appreciating her immaculate curves, the ones you worship. This feeling in your chest is dreadful and you can't seem to pinpoint why you're feeling as much as you're feeling. You don't love her. Your "relationship", if we can even call it that, is a laugh, really. A mutual grudging affection that somewhere along the way turned into something more, you saw her more, more deeply. No, not really. More like you just get to see more of her and more often, whenever you please.

But now it appears she is his. He's taken her; is taking her, right now. And you're frozen watching; helpless to move and powerless to breathe. Forced to sit and witness every minute of it. Hating and wishing for it to be done. 

The gleam in her eyes is for him, the gleam that used to melt you to the bone. And he couldn't possibly deserve this; couldn't possibly deserve her. If you could move you'd finish him; save her from his dominating touch.

But then…her eyes have found you; your relentless stare. She whispers his name. No. That was you r name; you are certain of it. Now everything is feeling heavy and it all fades to black. You're propelled into light-headed consciousness; into reality and none of it was real.

Part Two to come soon...


	2. Part Two

Part Two

The pain is returning; burning a hole right through you. The drugs don't seem to be enough anymore. They merely dull the ache they used to at least almost suppress. And the dreams; the dreams are killing you.

Your subconscious must be angry with you, furious even to throw such images into your sleep. Yes, you're awful to her and yes, you're awful to him but your brain has never done something like_ this_ before. You'll have to have a talk with it later but now you have more "_pressing_" matters to attend to.

You burst into her office unannounced, a sight she is so very used to by now. She's standing in front of her desk, already poised in administrative mode, ready to handle anything you hurl at her. Except perhaps…

You close the blinds before you even meet eyes and _this_ time she can't have a clue why you're here. "House, you are a Doctor here. I can't excuse you from treating patients because they annoy you or haven't yet bowed down to the Great and Powerful Oz." Ah, sweet victory. She has no idea what's coming. "Oh, Cuddy" you begin in a tone that 'only mimics' flirtation, "that's not why I'm here".

Conversation seems pointless here, useless and tired and better things could be happening in its place. You walk; only it's more like stalk, towards her as your eyes nearly bore holes in her kin. You move closer and closer, a few feet, a few inches, then nothingness. She's forced to back straight into her desk and you're right there with her. No apologies, just friction. A great motto to live by.

You're so close she can't even breathe. Every attempt is just pulling _you_ in and not oxygen. It's like breathing in poison; the more you try for air, the more it seeps in, strangling you and the more you desperately try to breathe because of it. An endless, painful cycle. 

Your cane drops to the ground at your feet and she tries to pull farther away, tries to breathe but you just shove everything off her desk before lifting her onto it. One of her legs rests between your, sending delicious and devilish signals to _both_ your brains, no doubt. You run a hand up her other leg so delicately it's as if a ghost were touching her; the sensation so feather-light she's not even sure she can actually feel it. Her skin is like fairy dust in your hands, you long to touch every glistening, little piece but it keeps escaping you, falling through your fingers so you just keep grasping for more.

Her mind went on overload the minute you touched her. And she still can't seem to form and kind of sentence, although her lips are tirelessly trying to. Conversationpointless…remember? Your lips drop down to hers, silencing her. It's been far too long since you've relished this experience. You blame the clouding anger and the false truths it brought; that she was not a fitting course of treatment for this havoc wreaking pain. Now that you've seen anger, punched it in the nose and given it a swift cane to the balls, you know that she is a perfect course of treatment, not a cure but nonetheless a highly effective distracting agent and you wonder what other ailments she's good for.

This pain in your fingers, hindered as they play an unwritten melody across her skin. Irritated eyes, she's just the thing. One look at the skin and the lips and the _curves_ of this woman and goodbye irritated feeling. Malfunctioning taste buds, here's a kicker; a kiss is the perfect remedy to correct any taste related confusion. Actually, a kiss, or many, proves to be quite a miraculous healing technique.

So far the pain is losing this battle. Everything is set to heavy glow and the more you touch her, the more you kiss her, the more phosphorescent the light you emit becomes. Like fuel on the fire of an already catastrophic blaze for the perilous need for every inch of her skin. 

God, how you've perfected this kiss. You've been here dozens upon dozens of times, each exploration seeming better than the last. But _this_ kiss reigns superior, having reached a most unreachable level of perfection. Nothing could recreate this feeling again. But then, there's always room for improvement, or at least a little practice.

Part Three to come soon...


	3. Part Three

Part Three

She's got a body like the devil and she smells like sex. Truer, wiser words have never been spoken. At least not when Cuddy is concerned. Every inch of her heavenly form painstakingly carved out of the most exquisite material imaginable. And with the single purpose of setting fire to your soul; pulling the devil himself out of you. You'd cheat destiny just to be near her. But lust is just a simple chemical reaction, although you can't say you agree.

You pull away now, and just look at her. The heart of your gaze causing color to flare into her cheeks. You love this affect you have on her: her skin jumping at your closeness, begging to be touched. And the way she touches you is like a needle in your veins, when she moves from her desk to lead you to the couch and her hands press against the skin of your stomach. She rises up on her toes to kiss you once more before you find yourselves strewn across the couch with her pressing her hips into yours. What is this you're feeling? The two of you engulfed by passion, dominated by lust and a million other terrifically wrong reasons and feelings and feeling for more.

It's funny how there always seems to be a bad word for such a good thing. Forget subtlety, you're more for the conspicuous, anything to set the rumor mill atwitter, and anything to make her come undone against you. Surely it's all about pain but even more about pleasure. The two go hand-in-hand so often in your life; like a couple so clearly ameshed and attached at the hip. She stiffens. Resistance, again, proof now, undeniable, that she is evil and full of empty promises. But you're anything but sentimental.

You pull her down to you again, capturing her lips in another skillfully tantalizing kiss. And no, you're not falling in love you're just falling to pieces. When you lock your eyes on hers, the blue is both icy and smoldering and you hungrily welcome the pressure but even more the dizzying afterglow it will leave: hazy, heat-soaked and electrifying. And you want to commit all her curves to memory, her too-perfect figure enough to bring any man groveling to his knees. You want her emblazoned on the surface of your brain because…she makes you feel more alive than you ever thought possible. She is your highest high. But you are still anything but sentimental.


End file.
